The Most Beautiful Lie We Have
by Lady Cina of Paradox
Summary: Feliciano was born into a life of privilege, but those of privilege must pay the price for their opportunities. Taught to read, he is forced into a political war not his own and has no other choice but to accomplish his task: Overthrow the House of Beilschmidt.


The house stank. It reeked of the smoke from the multitude of fires. The odor of rotten food lingered on the breath of the frightened who huddled around the roaring fireplace. The smell of sweat was on their faces, the smell of dung in the dirtied hay.

Across the room, there was a very different type of stink.

The rank smell of blood festered around a woman, laid supine upon the ground. She inhaled. She exhaled. She breathed no more. The buzzing of flies became the only sound in the house as they circled her body like buzzards.

The midwife sighed, lifting the long-since-cold cloth from the dead woman's head. Wordlessly, she gathered her supplies and sauntered outside into the night, slamming the door behind her.

The sound of the door, loud and sudden, dispelled the heavy atmosphere in the room.

A baby cried, experiencing the first rude awakening in his life.

The inhabitants of the room slowly regained their wits. The baby was passed from the arms of the father to those of a daughter, who did all in her power to calm him down. The father warily made his way over to the other side of the one-room house, reverently scooping up the mother's body in his arms. An inaudible prayer was said as he pushed the door open. Into the night he too stepped out, but his steps were silent as he could manage. He slipped into the night.

"Will Mamma be okay?" the baby's brother asked, prodding his sister fearfully. "Where is Babba going with her?"

"Stop poking me!" she hissed. "I just barely got Feliciano to sleep!"

"Where's Mamma going?"

His sister didn't respond for some time. How could she possibly tell him about something she barely understood herself?

"Mamma's going to heaven, Roma."

"Is Babba going too?"

"No. He's not. He's coming back, don't worry," she answered curtly. Hopefully it was right to assume that.

"Chiara?"

"Yes?"

"What's heaven like?"

"I don't know, Roma. No one does, except the priests."

"When you're a priest, will you tell me what heaven's like?"

Chiara giggled a little at the 5-year-old's naivete. "I'm going to be a _nun_ , not a priest. Besides, with _your_ attitude, I don't think it's going to matter much if you know what heaven's like!"

"Hey!"

"Oh come on, Romano, there's no way you actually know what I'm talking about. You're too _stuuuupid_." Chiara jeered.

"Chiara I'll tell Babba!" Romano retorted angrily, and perhaps a little too loudly.

Chiara sighed in exasperation, and shot Romano a look so dirty he had the good presence of mind to shut up. She turned her attention back to the matter at hand: the screaming newborn mass of flesh known as her baby brother. She stood up and paced around the perimeter of the room, bouncing him up and down as she held him close. The screaming faded into crying, which eventually stopped altogether. Chiara hummed a lullaby, and as the night wore on, the infant's brown eyes blinked closed.

"There," Chiara said, not above a breath. "He's asleep. Hey Roma, you want to hold him?"

Romano didn't respond. The little boy was already fast asleep, his thumb habitually in his mouth. Chiara sighed, slumping down beside him, Feliciano in her arms. She leaned against the earthen wall, letting the heaviness of the day finally wash over her. In exhaustion, she finally allowed herself a moment's rest.

The night continued to march on. Their father slipped back into the house, unnoticed as he arrived.

Bending over his sleeping children, he scooped up the newborn in Chiara's arms, slumping down against a wall. From his pocket he withdrew a sheet, and wrapped his son in it, better shielding him from the cold night. He kissed his forehead, exhaling slowly in exhaustion.

"Oh, Feliciano..." he whispered, though no one could hear. "If only your mother could be holding you now, instead of me." He chuckled humorously. "Is bad luck, the father holding the bambino first."

He sighed, the room feeling a little emptier as he murmured those words. Deciding not to suffer under the burden of the quiet, he scraped the loose straw strewn about the ground into a heap. Deeming his work suitable for the baby, he laid him down atop the straw.

Feliciano's eyes blinked open, taking in the first glimpse at his father. An infant hand extended towards him. His father accepted it, allowing the newborn to squeeze his finger. He smiled, a tear sliding unbidden down his wide nose.

He cleared his throat, flushing down his sorrow. He began to hum, his unpracticed voice scaling the melody unskillfully.

Stroking Feliciano's hand with unclasped one, he began to sing a lullaby:

 _Fa la ninna_

 _Fa la nanna_

 _Nella braccia_

 _Della mamma-_

He faltered, the weight of the night returning to his voice. He looked back down at his son, and removed his hand, wiping a tear from his face. Feliciano stared back at him, appearing to blink in confusion. "Why did you stop?" he seemed to ask. There was no way of knowing. He was still just a baby, after all.

"More bad luck, Feliciano," his father said sadly, "I am no mother." He sighed. "Although, for now, I suppose I will have to do. Is not too bad to sing just one lullaby, no?"

He laid down beside Feliciano's makeshift mattress. Feliciano yawned, slipping his thumb between his toothless lips, sucking on it protectively. His father picked up the tune where it dropped off, singing quieter than before, but more controlled.

 _Fa la ninna_

 _Fa la nanna_

 _Nella braccia_

 _Della mamma_

 _Fa la ninna bel bambin_

 _Fa la nanna bambin bel_

 _Fa la ninna_

 _Fa la nanna_

Feliciano's eyes closed again, his thumb still in his mouth. His father smiled sidelong at him, closing his own eyes. A familiar feeling of love sparked in his chest as laid awake in thought.

His Adelaide, his love of his life, may be gone. But so many homes cried curses. So many wept over the loss of family members. So many were completely and utterly alone, abandoned by all they loved as they suffered in solitude. So many had died, and yet, still they could survive.

He was-surrounded by his four children, in his own house, and with another son to his name.

Adelaide would not wish to be mourned. It wasn't like her to wish to be pitied, for something as silly as her death.

They could overcome this. He would _not_ give into madness as so many had in his youth. He would not. Not when there was so much worse that could happen.

He exhaled, letting sleep wash over him.

There was much to do in the morn.


End file.
